I am remembering those nights when

after soup

in the dim of our kitchen,

 

our father

would rise

reach for his coat,

find our fingers, mine and yours,

somewhere in our sleeves.

 

Stepping into the night

slowly,

the air                   the right kind of cold.

 

You and I,

walking in his wake

mint gum, cracked leather, cologne

 

 

 

Or maybe this:

bright flakes

maze the black,

contested

by stars

and stars

and my breath—

caged in

 

my soul’s own night

 

and you,

with our father,

 

now far ahead.